


Family Dynamics

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a family secret is revealed, the nature of genetics is discussed, and an extremely tense game of chess is played.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Dynamics

Sherlock fired at the bomb jacket.

John felt all the air leave his lungs as if he'd already been hit by the explosion, his muscles tensing in anticipation of pain, which made it more than a little anti-climatic when nothing actually happened.

Moriarty let out a delighted laugh. “Well done,” he said, slow clapping. “Very well played. I'm not done with you that easily, though. We've still got years to catch up on, big brother.”

Sherlock lowered the gun a fraction of an inch, looking as puzzled as John felt. “Brother?” he repeated.

“Must be a bit of a surprise to discover another sibling,” said Moriarty. His gaze flicked from Sherlock to a dark corner by the door. “Isn't that right, Mycroft? I see you got my message.”

John glanced over to see Mycroft step forward from the shadows. His face was as blankly emotionless as John had ever seen it, but his grip on his umbrella was tight enough to make his knuckles white.

“Indeed,” he said, walking towards them. A few of the darting red lights left Sherlock and John to hover over his chest, but he ignored them. “I hoped that I had destroyed the potential for any more siblings. How disappointing to be proved wrong.”

Moriarty put his hand on his heart in faked hurt. “You wound me,” he said. “And to think I've gone to so much effort to make our family reunion perfect – I even included the family pet.” He gestured at John, who glared at him.

“Something you should have told me, Mycroft?” said Sherlock in the same tone he used when Mycroft turned up at Baker Street with some case he wanted solving.

“Not at all,” said Mycroft, still sounding calm. “I could not have foreseen this.”

“Oh, I think you could have,” corrected Moriarty. “You must have known they'd try again. Tenacity is a virtue, you know.”

Mycroft grimaced, in the first real display of emotion he'd let slip since he'd appeared. “Indeed,” he said. “Tenacity, logic, knowledge and a lack of human attachment.”

“Oh, wonderful!” said Moriarty, beaming with joy. “You remember. Professor Moran will be so pleased!”

Mycroft flinched at the name. It was hardly anything; just the slightest twitch of his face, but John knew that if he'd seen it, then Sherlock and Moriarty definitely had. “Are you working for him, then?” he said. “Still letting those people dictate all your actions? That's hardly logical.”

“Oh, no,” said Moriarty. “I did away with them years ago. And I did a far better job than you did. They were so tiresome, always comparing me to Sherlock.” He lost his over-enthusiastic smile for a moment in order to glare at Sherlock with an unnerving amount of hatred. “They just couldn't stop lamenting your loss. All the great things you could have done, could have been, if they'd just had the chance to mould you.”

Sherlock was beginning to look even more frustrated than John felt. It was clear that he didn't have a clue what Mycroft and Moriarty were talking about either and that it was making him furious. John was pretty sure it was only the threat of the snipers that was keeping him from a dramatic flounce out of the room.

Moriarty looked back at Mycroft. “They were very angry with you about it. You were their greatest failure – so great that it wiped out their chance of success completely. I was a bit of a rush job, you see, and their notes were patchy at best. I'm afraid I just didn't turn out quite the way they'd hoped, and certainly not as great as Sherlock would have been.” He hissed out Sherlock's name with an impressive amount of venom.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “You're clearly missing some of the attributes that they thought were important. Sanity, for one. I'm surprised they didn't make further attempts.”

Moriarty smiled, and for a moment he looked every bit as evil as John knew he was. “Oh, they did. Somehow they never seemed to survive, though. It's so easy to kill an embryo, don't you agree?” John winced at that, feeling sick in the base of his stomach.

“Ah,” said Mycroft quietly. “And now, what? You're intending to finish the job? Make yourself an only child, as if that will prove anything?”

“Not right now,” said Moriarty, backing up a few steps. “This was just a getting-to-know-you meeting. My plan is far more fun than merely killing you – there's no point in thinking small, after all.” He was getting close to the exit again and Sherlock stepped forward, his grip on the gun tightening.

“Uh, uh,” said Moriarty in his annoying sing-song voice, wagging a finger. “Don't be naughty now. The snipers are still watching, brother, so I'd suggest you don't try and follow me. Just leave out the front quietly, like good boys, and I'll see you both again very, very, very soon.” He gave a little wave, then turned and disappeared back into the changing rooms.

Sherlock immediately turned on Mycroft. “You're going to have to tell me now,” he said angrily.

“So it would seem,” said Mycroft. Now that Moriarty was gone, the sniper lights were beginning to blink out, one by one, and John pulled himself to his feet.

“What on earth is going on?” he asked.

Both the Holmes brothers turned to stare at him as if they'd forgotten he was there.

“John,” said Sherlock, taking a couple of steps towards him and then stopping as if he didn't know why he was moving.

“It's a very long story, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft, sounding tired. More than tired, really – bone-weary in a way that reminded John of all-night shifts full of injuries he'd known would never fully heal. “I had hoped to never have to tell it, but it seems that hope has died.”

“It really has,” said Sherlock fiercely, turning away from John to glare at his brother. “No backing down or prevaricating this time, Mycroft. Tell me.”

“Not here,” said Mycroft sharply. “We shall go back to my home and I shall tell you everything you need to know there. And hopefully, once I have finished, you will understand why I kept silent this long.”

“Unlikely,” growled Sherlock, but he followed Mycroft outside without further comment. John went with them, still feeling a little spacey from all the adrenalin and sudden surprises. Part of him couldn't stop waiting for Moriarty to appear again, for more guns and bombs to be sprung on them. Sherlock glanced back at him, then fell behind a few steps to walk next to him.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a terse voice.

“Fine,” said John, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I could do with some tea, though.”

“I'll have Mycroft make some at his,” said Sherlock. “It's the least he can do.”

John hesitated for a second, then went ahead and asked the question that was on the tip of his tongue. “Sherlock, what's going on? How can Moriarty be your brother?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were our adopted parents,” he said. “When Mycroft was eight, he turned up at a police station in Croydon carrying a baby – me. No one ever came looking, and there was no record of missing children that matched our description. He's the only one who knows where we came from and he's refused ever since to give any details, or even any hints. I don't even know what our original surname was.”

“That's what your feud is about,” realised John.

Sherlock nodded. “All he'd ever say was that we didn't have any parents other than the Holmeses, and that the past was better forgotten. I did my own investigation once I was old enough, but there's nothing. Nothing at all – it was as if we'd dropped out of the sky.”

“And now there's Moriarty,” said John softly as they reached the large black car that was waiting for them.

Mycroft nodded, looking even more exhausted and still clutching at his umbrella. “And now there's Moriarty,” he repeated.

 

****

 

Mycroft took them back to his flat, where he carefully propped his umbrella in a stand that contained three identical ones, then led them through to the kitchen.

“You may have tea if you wish,” he said, “but I intend to have something stronger. You're welcome to join me.”

John hesitated for a moment. Generally he tried to avoid using alcohol as a remedy after something emotional or traumatic, but tonight had left him feeling shaken on a level that even Afghanistan hadn't quite managed. After all, he'd been expecting guns and bombs there – having it happen in London had come a bit out of left field.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Sounds good.”

Mycroft nodded, then looked at Sherlock, who scowled. “You know I don't bother with that stuff,” he said. “Get on with it, Mycroft.”

“You're sure you want Doctor Watson to join us,” said Mycroft carefully. “Wouldn't you prefer to decide what to tell him once you have all the facts?”

“Moriarty seems to have decided to get him involved in this,” said Sherlock. “It's only fair that he gets to find out what it's all about.”

“I don't want to intrude on private family stuff,” said John. God knew there was stuff he never wanted Sherlock to find out about his family.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “Even Moriarty thinks you're practically family now.”

 _He thinks I'm a pet,_ thought John. _It's not really the same thing._ He didn't voice the thought – getting in to all Moriarty's little cutting comments seemed like a terrible idea, and gave them far more power than they were worth.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Very well,” he said. “The study, then. It's the most secure room, and it would be a disaster if this information reached any other ears.” He was looking straight at John as he said the last sentence as if giving a warning, and John give a curt nod to show he'd understood.

Mycroft's study was lined with bookcases. There were probably more books in the room than John had ever seen somewhere that wasn't a library and he blinked at them for a long moment, impressed, before Sherlock nudged him down into one of the large leather chairs that sat in front of the fireplace. He didn't sit down himself, instead choosing to hover and fidget as Mycroft poured himself and John large glasses of brandy.

“Sit down,” Mycroft told him as he handed over John's drink and then settled into his own chair. “This will take a while.”

“I'm fine,” said Sherlock. “Start talking.”

Mycroft let out a long, careful breath. “No interruptions,” he said. “Questions must wait until the end, although I can't promise I shall be able to offer any answers. I was very young, and many of the facts never became apparent. Time has only made them harder to uncover.”

Sherlock let out an impatient growl and for a moment John thought he was going to explode with sheer frustration. Mycroft took a careful sip of his drink before starting and John wondered if he was trying to see just how far he could push Sherlock, or if he was just dreading having to tell this story.

“I have never lied to you. We truly do not have any parents other than the Holmeses. I was born in a laboratory – created, I suppose, but that seems a little melodramatic. The scientists were attempting an experiment in DNA manipulation, trying to create a child who precisely fitted a blueprint they had drawn up – I was shown it once. I've never discovered why, or what they were intending for me to become, but it was almost certainly a criminal organisation rather than a clandestine political one. The attributes they focussed on – including amorality and a lack of empathy, or indeed any hint of sympathy for another living creature – point towards felonious intentions.”

Sherlock had stopped moving as soon as Mycroft had mentioned a laboratory but he moved at that point, sliding down to sit on the floor next to John's chair. John couldn't see his face but his hands were clasped tightly together on his knees. John moved his leg slightly, just enough to press against Sherlock's back in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Mycroft's voice hadn't wavered as he spoke, nor had the calm mask slipped from his face, but his grip on his glass looked a little unsteady as he took another drink.

“Once I was born, the experiment continued into the realm of manipulating the formation of personality through educational methods and a strictly controlled environment. I was instructed in how to see people's secrets and manipulate them, that the most important virtues were tenacity, logic, knowledge and a lack of human attachment, that the only goals that were important were increasing your own power and shaping the world around you to conform with your wishes. Other people were only there to be used to further your own ends.

“I was directed very narrowly to only be what they wanted me to be – I had no access to anything other than what they deemed suitable. They surrounded me with books and equipment with which to make my own discoveries, but there was no place for fiction, or entertainment. There was nothing but text books and encyclopedias. I learnt about the world outside the laboratory entirely from these books, the occasional television documentary that I was shown, and from the things that I was told.”

John's insides felt like ice. How could anyone treat a child like that? It was inhuman – monstrous. His hands curled into fists as Mycroft talked and he tried to prevent himself from an outburst. Against his leg, Sherlock's back was as rigid as an iron bar.

Mycroft must have seen John's thoughts written all over his face, because he paused to look at him. “I realise it sounds barbaric, and perhaps it was, but you should understand that I didn't know any other life. I was allowed plenty of freedom to pursue my own interests, as long as those interests followed the pattern of what they deemed acceptable behaviour, which they usually did.” He gestured at the books surrounding them. “I have always had a deep love of acquiring new knowledge, after all.”

“It still wasn't right,” said John. “Children need to play, not just learn.”

“I have since realised that,” agreed Mycroft. “But Professor Moran – he was the head of the research team – thought that play was a distraction and only led to the encouragement of bad habits. Dedicating time to anything that was not for the accumulation of more power or the consolidation of that which you already had was unnecessary.”

He paused for another sip of drink. “One of the other researchers disagreed, however. Or perhaps she was unable to allow a child to grow up with nothing but logic and knowledge – I suspect she was not as capable of cutting off emotional attachment as the others were when dealing with me. With their experiment.” He stopped for a moment and looked down at his glass, swirling the brandy that was left in it. “I did not know this then,” he said slowly, “but later I overheard some of the other scientists saying that she was the woman who had acted as a surrogate womb, once they had coded my DNA and needed somewhere to gestate the embryo. They supposed it was that that lead to her attachment to me. In some ways I suppose it made her my mother, although she shared no genetic material with me.”

“Mummy was your mother,” Sherlock corrected him sharply. “You said that – the only mother we had, remember?”

Mycroft nodded. “I did,” he said. “The Holmeses were the only parents I have ever had. No one in the laboratory could have counted as family, not even Doctor Monroe. She never considered my presence there to be wrong, or tried to persuade Professor Moran that I should be allowed more of a normal childhood. She merely took to bringing in treats for me – sweets, small toys and, most importantly to me, the occasional story book.

“I learned things from those books that all the reference books in the world could never have taught me. They featured children who went on adventures, who played games and engaged in activities for no other reason than that it was fun, and they almost all had families. Parents, siblings – they were alien concepts to me. I read about people caring about each other – giving hugs when sad, spending time together for no other reason than that they liked each other's company, and with no trace of manipulation or subtle machinations in order to increase their own status. I didn't really understand it – I had been taught that only stupid, ordinary people allowed themselves to get emotionally attached to people, and that it left them vulnerable in ways that I could learn to take advantage of, but not what the benefits were.”

“Christ,” muttered John, unable to hold it in. He took a long drink, feeling the alcohol burn as it went down.

Sherlock nudged his shoulder back against John's knee without looking away from Mycroft. “Continue,” he said.

Mycroft let out a gentle sigh. “I became emotionally attached to Doctor Monroe,” he said. “I was only six and despite my best efforts it was obvious to the other researchers. An investigation discovered the things she had brought me, which I hadn't hidden well enough, and she was- Well. I never saw her again, and from things that were said later, I suspect she was killed. That's one of the key factors that makes me suspect that the research was part of a criminal organisation.”

“You don't know which one?” asked Sherlock. “Even now?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “I was too young then to gather any real information and by the time I was able, all the records had been destroyed. The most I have been able to confirm is that it was funded through a series of dummy organisations, but the trail goes cold before I can trace who or what was behind them.”

Sherlock made a displeased noise, as if Mycroft should be beyond petty restrictions like a lack of records. “How can there be nothing?” he asked. “I know the kind of information access you have. There must be something – you can't have looked properly.”

“I assure you I have,” said Mycroft with an edge to his voice that was the most amount of emotion he had shown throughout the conversation so far. “There is nothing. Whoever covered it up was extremely meticulous.”

Sherlock snorted, but refrained from further comment.

“How did you get away?” John asked.

“The how was easy, in the end,” said Mycroft. “The why is more important – it takes a considerable push for a small child to abandon the only life they know. By the time I was six or seven, it was clear that I had been a failure. I was as intelligent as they wanted me to be and I was learning the things they taught me far quicker than I think even Professor Moran had predicted, but I was incapable of emotionally detaching myself in the way they wanted. Not just with Doctor Monroe, although that was my most glaring error. I was unable to avoid empathising with the people in the simulations they would devise, the ones that were meant to be teaching me to make decisions and concoct plans based purely on attaining my goals with no reference to any other moral or emotional considerations. That was unacceptable to them, so they created you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, and John knew he had been waiting for that. Even he had seen it coming, although he'd been hoping he'd be proved wrong. Hearing it out loud, actually knowing that Sherlock was the result of a science experiment, was shocking and John shivered. Sherlock twitched away from him slightly when he felt it and John put his hand on his shoulder, wanting to reassure him that nothing Mycroft said could affect their friendship.

“They took me to see you shortly after you were born,” said Mycroft, and his voice had grown quieter. “Professor Moran showed me this tiny, red-faced baby, and told me that you were my brother. He said that you were going to be the success I wasn't, that they'd found the correct genetic combination that would prevent you from ever becoming emotionally attached or indulging in empathy. He told me that they were going to get your education completely right, that there would be none of the weaknesses that Doctor Monroe's mistakes had introduced in me. And then he took me back to my room and left me there alone.

“I sat on my bed and I thought about having a brother. Until then, I'd been the only person in the world like me. Everyone else had families, a whole host of people who shared their DNA – parents, siblings, even obscure cousins, all people they could say they shared what they were made of with. Even if they didn't see them, or like them, they knew that they were out there, somewhere. I'd never had that – I'd always known I was unique, alone. And now I had a brother – someone who was the same as me, at least a bit. More than a bit, really, as you were based on the same DNA blueprint that I had been created from. And they were going to repeat the education I'd had with you, only without the good bits, the few things that had made me feel like the children in those stories had seemed to feel all the time. I couldn't stand it, the idea of it. I knew I had to get you away from them.”

He paused to take a drink. There was silence in the room for a few moments and John thought about a small boy, sitting on a bed in a sterile, blank room and deciding to leave everything he knew behind for the sake of a baby he had only seen for a handful of minutes.

“I'd had a reasonably good plan for how to escape the laboratory since I was five,” continued Mycroft. “But I had no real idea of what would be outside when I got there, or if it would be any better than where I was, so I'd never really thought about leaving. Over the next few months I refined my plan until it was perfect and waited for you to be old enough so that I could risk taking you away from adult supervision. I didn't want to wait too long, though – I had no idea where the lab was located, but I had a vaguely formed idea that it must be in the middle of the countryside, and I might have to carry you a long way. If you were too heavy, that might prove difficult.

“One night, when I deemed I had waited long enough, I left my room and destroyed as much of the lab as I could – the notes and data they had collected on both of us, as well as the equipment and samples. I set what I hoped would be a small fire in the records room – I wanted them to be too distracted to come after us immediately, and I thought that if enough of their data was gone, they wouldn't bother starting again. Then I went and collected you, and we left.”

“Just like that?” asked John, incredulously.

Mycroft flicked his eyes to him. “It was relatively simple,” he said. “They underestimated me – after all the training in problem-solving and analytical thinking, spotting the holes in their security was easy. Once we got outside, though, there were two unexpected factors to cope with.”

“Your agoraphobia,” put in Sherlock.

“What?” asked John.

“Mycroft's agoraphobic,” said Sherlock. “Always has been – it's why he carries an umbrella everywhere, so that he can create an artificial ceiling if he needs to.”

“It's no longer a problem,” said Mycroft firmly. “The umbrellas are merely habit. However, back then it was a surprise. I'd only very rarely left the laboratory – there was a small courtyard I was occasionally taken to, but it was surrounded on all sides by tall buildings so that the sky was a small square. I'd had no idea just how wide and empty it could be, and I found it a rather nasty shock when we got outside.

“The other surprise was that we weren't in the countryside somewhere after all, but in the middle of a city. It makes sense to me now – far easier to hide an illegal laboratory in a city full of corporations and buildings no one pays attention to than in a country estate surrounded by suspicious locals. Still, it required a change in my immediate plan which, coupled with my, ah, unanticipated reaction to the sky, very nearly overwhelmed me enough to convince me to turn back.

“I could hear the alarms starting to ring behind me though, and the thought of what they would do to you if we did return – and the changes they'd make to the security which would make it so much harder to repeat an attempt, pushed me on. They'd taught me how to identify details about people through observation, and I found a woman who clearly had two children of around my age, and asked her to direct me to a police station. It was a bit of a gamble – I had no idea if the ideas of the outside world that I had gleaned from books had any basis in reality, but I had very little choice. I couldn't look after you on my own, I couldn't even look after myself. If the police turned out to be on the side of the scientists, then we would just have to wait until I was significantly older and better equipped to provide an alternative.”

“You didn't tell them about where we came from,” said Sherlock. “Surely once you had ascertained that the police weren't going to turn you away, reporting the details would have been an even better way to prevent them coming after us?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, almost certainly,” he said. “But I was only young, and rather naïve, really. Whilst we were there, I was walking down a corridor with you – you were unused to being held for so long, but I was unwilling to put you down until I was certain it was safe, and you became a little fractious. I was walking the corridor in an attempt to settle you, and I heard two officers discussing a fire at a near-by building. It was the one I'd set – it had got rather out-of-control and destroyed a large part of the building. I was worried that I'd get into trouble for that, punished somehow, and we'd get separated.”

“We didn't,” said Sherlock. “The Holmeses took us both in.”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “We were extremely lucky.”

“It rather sounds like you made your own luck,” said John. “Jesus, that took some guts.”

Mycroft gave him a surprised look, as if he hadn't realised there was anything particularly impressive about a child rescuing himself and his baby brother from a bunch of crazed scientists. “Thank you,” he said with a small smile.

Sherlock sat up further. “And you never told anyone? Not even Mummy?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “This is the first time I have spoken of it since we left that place. When Mummy told me that they were going to keep us and eventually adopt us, I sat her and Father down and tried to explain that we were never going to be like other children, and that you might not ever really understand people, or be able to care about them properly. I didn't want them to decide they didn't want us after I'd got settled – better to warn them in advance, I thought. Mummy just told me that no parent got to choose what their children were like, and that they were prepared for whatever surprises came along.”

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. “She was wrong. She wasn't prepared for several of the surprises I managed to give them.”

Mycroft smiled at that. “True,” he said. “And I wasn't prepared for just how wrong you proved Professor Moran,” he said. He glanced at John. “You do have the capacity for emotional attachment, and to a great degree, as you have demonstrated admirably tonight.”

John didn't need to be able to see Sherlock's face to know that he was scowling. “So, Moriarty really is your brother?” he asked, trying to turn the conversation away before Sherlock got in a sulk.

Mycroft made a brief, disgusted face. “Brother is really an inaccurate term in this case. He was certainly created using the same DNA blueprint, or whatever was left of it after the fire. I would not count him as family.”

“He seems to count you as family,” said John. “This whole thing has been some kind of ridiculous sibling rivalry,” he realised. “Jesus Christ.”

“It would seem so,” said Mycroft. “Trying to prove that he is the most successful version of Professor Moran's experiment.”

“Pointless,” declared Sherlock. “Why should any of us care about fulfilling the expectations of a man who makes Doctor Frankenstein look like a hobbyist?”

“It's a little unflattering to compare us to the creature from that story,” said Mycroft reprovingly. “Really, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him in favour of standing up, leaving John's leg cold where he'd been leaning against it. He paced the length of the room, his brain clearly moving at a speed that made John's hurt in sympathy. It had been an extraordinarily long and difficult night, how was Sherlock still able to think at all?

“That comment about embryos – they were trying to create more, and he killed them.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Apparently their attempts to eradicate the ability to care about other lives has been successful in him, at least.”

“And he's got some further plan for us,” muttered Sherlock. “But what?”

John let out a quiet sigh and settled back into the chair. If Sherlock was going to go into one of his frenzied thinking fits, at least he was sitting in a chair large enough and comfortable enough to doze off in, although it was likely to leave his shoulder sore later.

Mycroft gave him a sharp-eyed look. “Sherlock,” he said, standing up. “I have told you all I can for now, and your flatmate is exhausted. Take him home so that I can go to bed myself. Some of us have early meetings to concern ourselves with.”

Sherlock glanced back at John and frowned at whatever he saw there. “Yes, home,” he said. “I can think there much easier.”

John stood up, wincing as his joints cracked. He set his glass down on a small table. “Thank you,” he said to Mycroft, who responded with a small smile.

“You're quite welcome,” he said. “I'd apologise that you've been pulled into this mess, but the truth is that I'm rather pleased Sherlock has someone as steady as you to rely on. I trust you will continue to keep him as safe as you can.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Yes, you do,” said John. “Come on, let's get home before the sun comes up, at least.”

 

****

 

Three nights later, John was woken up by Sherlock's violin making the weird, slightly-creepy caterwauling noises that meant that Sherlock was sunk deep down in his thoughts and only playing to give his hands something to do. He groaned to himself and shoved his face down into the pillow, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep with that racket going on. He glanced at the time: 3.36 am. If he didn't go and shut Sherlock up, Mrs. Hudson and possibly the neighbours would be banging on the door.

It took him a few minutes to drag himself out of his warm bed and make it down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on his chair, staring off into the far distance as he played as if he was a thousand miles away and completely unaware that right here, where his body was, he was making a horrible noise.

“Sherlock,” said John wearily. “Could you stop that? It's half three in the morning.”

Sherlock took a moment to focus on him, then dropped the violin to his lap. “Is it?” he asked. “Ah, right.”

That was the closest to an apology that John was likely to get, and Sherlock had at least laid the bow aside, although he was cradling the violin as if he was unwilling to let go of it just yet. That was enough for now.

John ran a hand through his hair. Experience had taught him that now he was awake and out of bed, he was unlikely to get back to sleep easily. “I'm going to make hot chocolate,” he said, heading into the kitchen. “Want some?”

“Tea for me,” said Sherlock.

“I'm not making you anything with caffeine in it between the hours of 11 and 6 unless there's a case,” said John firmly. “I'm not enabling your ridiculous sleeping habits – you haven't slept at all tonight, have you?”

“Those are very precise times,” said Sherlock, ignoring the question entirely, which meant that the answer was 'of course not, John, why would I bother allowing my body a basic necessity like sleep?'

“I've found it's best to be precise with you,” said John, flicking the kettle on.

“Yes, that's certainly true,” said Sherlock quietly. There was the sound of him plucking at a violin string. “Precision and logic,” he muttered, apparently to himself.

“Well, be precise about whether or not you want hot chocolate, would you?” asked John. It was far too late for trying to parse Sherlock's cryptic comments.

“I suppose if it's all that's on offer, I shall have to settle for it,” he said.

John rolled his eyes to himself and got out a second mug.

When he set the hot chocolate down in front of Sherlock, Sherlock stared at it for a few minutes in disdain, as if trying to turn it into tea with just the power of his gaze. When that failed to work, he picked it up and sniffed at it, then took a tiny sip before setting it back down again and reapplying his attention to fiddling with his violin instead.

John ignored him in favour of drinking his own hot chocolate and trying to get his brain to shut down enough for him to be able to sleep when he did go back upstairs. If he didn't get a good few more hours tonight, he was going to be useless at work tomorrow, and Sarah had already given him more than enough leeway.

“Do you think it is possible to defy your DNA?” Sherlock asked after several minutes of silence.

John blinked, trying to bring his brain back online. “Is that what you've stayed up to brood about?” he asked.

“Tenacity, logic, knowledge, and a lack of human empathy,” recited Sherlock. “I am exactly what they created me to be.” He plucked another string on the violin in a sharp, discordant manner.

It seemed that John was going to be forced to try and be awake enough for this kind of conversation. “None of us get to chose our DNA,” he pointed out.

Sherlock made a face. “Most people aren't trapped by it,” he said.

John thought about that statement, and then about Sherlock, sitting up in the dark and worrying about his origins. He'd done the same thing himself when he'd been a lot younger and trying to work out just how much of who he was was because of him, and how much of it was because of his parents, but at least he'd never had to worry that he'd become what a bunch of crazed scientists wanted him to be.

“I can't sing at all,” he said eventually. “It's so painful to listen to I used to be able to use it as a form of torture against Harry. My mum was exactly the same. When I'm drunk, I laugh just like my dad – it gives me a cold shiver every time I hear it. I get my temper from him as well, and Harry... Well, Harry got the drinking, although there's more to that than DNA.”

Sherlock fixed his gaze on him, listening intently. This was the most John had ever spoken about his family and he knew it gave rather a lot away about his childhood, but sometimes you had to let these things out in order to make a point.

“We're all trapped by our DNA,” he concluded. “We all get genetics that we don't really want – it's what we do with them that's important.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “You don't laugh when you're drunk,” he said eventually. “Not properly. You giggle.”

John nodded. “Yeah. Not the manliest of sounds, but it's the last thing my dad would have done. Took me a while to learn that, and it took a lot to get control of my temper as well.”

“Except when it comes to chip-and-pin machines,” noted Sherlock.

John made a face. “Bloody things have it coming,” he muttered. “The point is, I'm not my dad, and I'm not my mum either, even if I still have some of the same basic DNA traits as them. And I'm definitely not who they might have wanted me to be. You're not who those scientists would want you to be. Tenacity and logic and all the rest of that stuff – they're just building blocks. It's what you use them for that's important, and you use them to catch criminals, not to be one.”

Sherlock made a face. “Not for altruistic reasons,” he pointed out.

“No,” agreed John, “but the result is the same. You help people, you solve crimes and bring about justice. You could just as easily have decided to do the opposite. Moriarty did.”

Sherlock sat and thought for a while longer. John left him to it and drank his chocolate, hoping he'd be able to get to bed without too much more deep and emotional conversation.

As he was finishing the last sip, Sherlock said, “Mycroft's position in the government really is relatively minor, especially when compared with where he could be. He could have control of everything – I know you despair of my current affairs awareness, but I know enough to know that most of the country is in a mess. He could easily just fix it all, if he took hold of a bit more power and changed a few things. I'm sure he already knows exactly how he'd be able to do it. I once asked him why he hadn't and he told me that power wasn't everything, that people had to be given the chance to do things themselves, otherwise what was the point of a society? I didn't understand then, but I can see now – he's been avoiding the things that Professor Moran would want him to do. Like you and your father.”

John nodded. “It seems likely,” he said. “I can imagine wanting to spend my whole life proving that bastard wrong.”

“He said that once he'd told me, I'd see why he didn't tell me sooner,” continued Sherlock. “I thought it was just because he wanted to protect me from the truth, but it was more than that. He wanted to make sure that they had no effect on my character development at all, not even by giving me something to avoid becoming. He didn't want them to have that power over me.”

“And they didn't,” said John. “You're who you are because of you, and because of Mycroft and your parents – the Holmeses. It's nothing to do with Professor Moran, or any of his scientists – you heard Moriarty. They count you as a lost opportunity, not a failure. They never even had the chance to get to you.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock quietly, and then was silent, lost in his thoughts again.

John stood up. “I'm going back to bed,” he announced. “If you start playing that violin again before at least eight, I will come back down and beat you to death with it.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “Noted,” he said.

John left him to his thinking, and went back to bed.

 

****

 

Despite Moriarty's promise that he'd see them very soon, they didn't hear anything else for a few weeks. Sherlock pulled himself out of his funk and got back to solving crimes, and John followed along behind him, trying to keep up with at least some of his deductions and largely failing. Mycroft came by the flat once or twice, sitting in John's chair and twirling his umbrella while having conversations with Sherlock that John was sure had at least four layers to them, underneath the two he could identify.

Still, for all that it felt as if they'd got back to normal, there was still a sense of anticipation in the air, everyone tensely waiting for Moriarty to make his move and get it over with. It was almost a relief when Sherlock leapt up from the sofa one afternoon and showed John a text that had just arrived from Lestrade.

 _Package arrived for you here. Also addressed to someone called 'Mycroft'. Care to come by and take a look?_

“This is it!” he insisted. “Come on!” He rushed out of the flat and was already hailing a taxi by the time John managed to catch up.

“Have you contacted Mycroft?” John asked.

Sherlock made a face. “No need,” he said. “He'll probably be there before us.”

Mycroft was there before them. Or, at least, he was waiting outside the Yard with his assistant for them when they arrived. “Good afternoon,” he greeted them.

“Hello,” responded John when Sherlock didn't bother with more than a look before he strode past him and inside the building. Mycroft smiled at him with what was probably condescension but might also have been genuine pleasure to see him as they followed after Sherlock. John could just about manage to understand Sherlock's facial expressions now, but Mycroft's were a whole new realm that he couldn't start to know how to comprehend.

Lestrade was waiting for them in his office with Donovan.

“Good god, do you have an entire entourage now?” asked Donovan when they all arrived and crowded in to the office.

Sherlock gave her his usual disgusted look, as if he was offended merely by her existence. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would I need more than John?”

A warm glow that John refused to acknowledge spread through his body.

“I apologise for the invasion,” said Mycroft smoothly, stepping forward and holding his hand out. “I am Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother.”

Lestrade's eyes widened and he glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft for a split-second, clearly looking for a family resemblance. “Oh, right,” he said, taking Mycroft's hand. “You're the other person the parcel is addressed to.”

“Where is it?” interrupted Sherlock before Mycroft could reply.

Lestrade sighed as he handed it over. It was just a normal parcel from what John could see, but Sherlock still examined it carefully. _Sherlock & Mycroft_ was written on the front in the same handwriting as the package that had contained the pink phone, but that was the only marking on it.

“It's the same as the last one,” said Sherlock. “Same stationery, same pen, even.”

“May I?” asked Mycroft, holding a hand out for it. Sherlock glared at him, but reluctantly gave it to him. Mycroft examined it for a moment, then gave it back without opening it. “No surnames,” he noted.

“He probably thinks 'Holmes' isn't relevant,” said Sherlock.

“Well, Sherlock and Mycroft are both pretty unique names,” pointed out Donovan.

Sherlock and Mycroft both paused for a fraction of a second, then continued as if nothing had happened. John wasn't sure anyone else but him noticed it, and he wondered if even they knew how similar they had looked in that moment.

“Unique,” repeated Mycroft as Sherlock carefully cut open the package. “Yes, that's true.”

Inside the parcel was a Dictaphone. It looked old and a bit battered, and Sherlock frowned at it for a moment.

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “This one is meant for me. I was involved in an incident in the early part of my career that featured a Dictaphone identical to that one.”

Lestrade frowned. “Sorry, how exactly are you involved here? I thought this Moriarty guy was just playing games with Sherlock.”

“It's become a family matter,” said Sherlock grimly.

“Great,” muttered Lestrade. “Nice of you to have let us know. You realise, of course, that this is a criminal investigation, and little details like the motivations of a crazed madman might actually help us solve it a bit quicker!”

“You're not going to solve it,” said Sherlock dismissively, still examining the Dictaphone.

“What Sherlock means to say,” said Mycroft smoothly before Lestrade could explode, and John felt a surge of a relief that it wasn't him trying to patch over the problems caused by Sherlock's bluntness this time, “is that we were not sure until now that he really was all that interested in me. Certainly his focus is on Sherlock.”

“Of course it is,” said Lestrade tiredly.

“If we're done bickering,” said Sherlock, “maybe we should find out what message Moriarty has left for us?”

Lestrade waved a hand vaguely. “Go for it,” he said.

Sherlock hit the play button on the Dictaphone. For a long moment there was nothing but breathless silence in the room, then Moriarty's voice rang out.

 _“Good day, boys! I did say I'd be back in touch – I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long?”_

“I could have stood to wait longer,” muttered John, then shut up when Sherlock glared at him. Right, got to let the madman have his chance to speak.

 _“I thought we could have another reunion – without the pet, this time. He was fun to play with for a bit, but the yapping gets annoying after a while. I'm at the Kavenagh warehouse – I'm sure dear Mycroft remembers it well. Do come as soon as you can – I get so bored when I'm waiting. There's precious little to keep me entertained here except a handful of detonators – I'm sure you wouldn't like me to play with them. You're both so attached to London, aren't you?”_

Great, bombs again. John's favourite. Mycroft's assistant exchanged a look with Mycroft, pulled out her Blackberry, and started typing away at it.

 _“Oh, and boys?”_ continued Moriarty's mocking voice. _“Just in case you decide to stay home and send some of your friends instead, you should remember that, in addition to all these shiny detonators, I also have a very big secret to play with. I'm sure you wouldn't want that finding its way into the hands of the News Of The World – they do get so hysterical about these things, don't they?”_

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor with rather more force than John thought he meant to.

 _“I'll have the tea and biscuits waiting,”_ concluded Moriarty. _“I do so love a good tea party between-”_ There was a breathless pause as John waited for him to finish the sentence and give at least part of Sherlock and Mycroft's secret away, then Moriarty giggled. _“between friends, of course,”_ he said. _“Au revoir!”_

Sherlock left the tape running, but there was only silence after that.

“What was all that about a secret?” asked Donovan eventually.

Mycroft made a displeased face. “Unfortunately, the nature of a secret means that I am unable to tell you,” he said. “I work for the government – only in a very minor role, but there are a great many secrets involved, none-the-less. Sherlock has become privy to several whilst assisting me with various situations.”

All of which was true, but completely irrelevant.

“We'll have to go,” Sherlock said to Mycroft.

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft, which was about all John could stand.

“Are you insane?” he exclaimed. “Of course you shouldn't go! You're going to end up getting yourselves killed!”

“And if we don't, who knows how many other people we'll get killed?” Sherlock asked irritatedly. “Besides which, you know he doesn't want to kill me. He just wants to prove he's better than me.”

“And what precisely do you think he's going to do once he's done that?” asked John. “Leave you alive to keep trying to take him down?”

Sherlock gave him a nasty look. “That implies that he could ever beat me at anything,” he said.

John gaped at him for a moment, then threw his hands into the air. “You're a bloody nutter,” he said.

“Your point is well taken,” said Mycroft, “but I'm afraid Sherlock is right. We have no choice – we cannot risk him setting off his bombs, and even the most expert government force would be unable to take him out before he had a chance to do so. The warehouse he is in was heavily fortified at the time of the incident I mentioned earlier.”

“So, you're not just walking into a trap, you're walking into a heavily fortified trap?” asked Lestrade. “Jesus, this is insanity! There must be something else we can do.”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look that contained an entire conversation.

“There are precautions that we can take,” said Mycroft. “I will need to confer with my brother alone.”

“And John,” added Sherlock. There followed another long look between the brothers, then Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella again.

“And John,” he conceded.

Lestrade let out a sigh. “Use my office,” he said. “If there's a crazy man with bombs, there are people I need to alert, even if we are going to just give in to his demands.”

“My assistant will help you,” said Mycroft. She glanced up from her phone at that, frowning. “This is private family business,” he said to her. Her frown didn't go anywhere, but she followed Lestrade and Donovan out of the room, detailing the agencies that she had already contacted, and the measures that were already being put in place.

Once the door was shut, Sherlock whirled on Mycroft. “You're being ridiculous!” he said, as if they were already halfway through a conversation.

“I am trying to protect both of us,” replied Mycroft. “This is not a secret we can afford to let out, not to anyone.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “As if it would matter what people think of us.”

Mycroft gave him a disgusted look. “As if that's the only factor,” he said. “Do you really think the government would continue to employ someone with my origins, once known? Do you think the Yard would want you to consult for them if they knew you were intended to be a criminal – think, Sherlock! Even if those weren't considerations, consider for a moment the massive intrusion that the media would make into our lives. We cannot allow even a hint of this to get out.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, but kept glaring.

“Uh, sorry,” interrupted John. “Surely this is irrelevant anyway, what with the bombs?”

“Keep up, John,” said Sherlock. “Of course we're not going to let the bombs go off. If we're inside, we'll be able to prevent that while the police come in, but that would almost certainly end with Moriarty using our secret as leverage in a last resort.”

“Besides which,” added Mycroft, “in order for us to co-ordinate such an operation, we would have to be wired up with surveillance equipment. Moriarty will almost certainly take care to mention it as soon as possible when we meet up with him.”

“It's why he sent this tape to the Yard, rather than to Baker Street,” added Sherlock. “He knew that meant we'd have to listen to it in front of at least some of the officers here – it was a silent threat.”

“Right,” said John, his head whirling. All these connections that Mycroft and Sherlock had automatically seen and which had bypassed him completely. He wondered when he'd become one of the stupid people in most of the rooms he was in.

“If my assistant hears even the tiniest hint about it, she'll be duty-bound to uncover the whole thing, and then to report it,” added Mycroft. “Regardless of any personal loyalty she might have to me.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “Such ridiculousness,” he muttered. “Blind loyalty to an organisation – I told you it was a mistake.”

“It's not to the organisation,” said Mycroft. “It's to an ideal – the ideal of the British nation. I can't expect you to understand that. Loyalty has never precisely been your strong point.”

John was about to interject to point out that Sherlock had always been loyal to him when he had a realisation. “Hang on,” said John slowly. The brothers stopped sniping at each other long enough to look at him. “I know about it.”

“I am not worried that you'll report me to my superiors,” said Mycroft.

“No, I mean,” said John, looking at Sherlock. “It's the last thing he'd have expected, right? He doesn't understand friendship – would he think for a second that you'd have told me?”

Sherlock's face lit up. “John, you're brilliant,” he said. “Of course he wouldn't. He couldn't begin to conceive of trusting someone like that.”

“It would be against everything that Professor Moran taught him,” added Mycroft. He gave John a warm smile. “I do believe we can use that to our advantage.”

 

****

 

Two hours later, John was sat in a small room in the building where the police and some mysterious black-clothed agents who refused to state their affiliation but were something to do with Mycroft had set up a temporary headquarters near the warehouse. Inside the room with him were Lestrade, Mycroft's assistant, who had refused to give John a name that was more real than 'Anthea', and the leader of the black-ops agents, who'd told them to call him Joseph, even though that was obviously not his real name either. Something about him made John want to snap to attention, even though he'd done little more than introduce himself and ask Anthea for a run-down of the situation.

John's job was relatively simple, especially when compared to Sherlock and Mycroft's – all he had to do was listen in to the wire that Sherlock was wearing and relay all the relevant details to the others in the room while covering up any mention of the laboratory or scientists who had created Mycroft, Sherlock and Moriarty. None of the other people in the room were happy about this, and John was very aware of Anthea's glares at him in particular. She'd spent most of the last two hours trying to persuade Mycroft that if only one person was to be trusted to listen in, then it should be her, as she had the highest security clearance. She'd clearly decided that her lack of success was John's fault, somehow.

 _“John,”_ came Sherlock's voice over the earpiece. _“We're just going in now.”_

“They're going in now,” he said to the room.

“Right,” said Lestrade.

There was a pause, then Sherlock spoke again. _“If something unexpected happens, John, don't do anything rash. Keeping yourself safe is the priority. Don't worry about me, just get yourself clear.”_

John snorted. Right, as if that was going to happen.

 _“Have I mentioned how pleased I am about your association with Doctor Watson?”_ came Mycroft's voice over the wire.

 _“Keep talking about it and I'll never take one of your cases again,”_ said Sherlock.

 _“Such a temper,”_ said Mycroft reprovingly. _“Do try to remain calm once we're inside, won't you?”_

“What's going on?” asked Anthea. “You're meant to be reporting, Watson, so report!”

John glanced at her. “They're bickering,” he said. “It's not very interesting, unless you're conducting a study on family dynamics.”

She glared at him. He ignored her.

There was a banging noise over the earpiece, followed by the sound of an opening door.

 _“Good evening,”_ said Mycroft. _“We're here to see Moriarty.”_

Sherlock snorted. _“It's not actually a tea party, Mycroft.”_

 _“This way,”_ said an unfamiliar, gruff voice. _“No funny moves.”_

“They're inside,” reported John.

There was silence for a few minutes except for the faint sound of footsteps, then the gruff voice came again.

 _“Stand still. We're going to check you for weapons.”_

“They're being checked for weapons,” said John, beginning to feel like he was playing the world's most nerve-wracking game of Chinese Whispers.

“What if they find the wire?” asked Lestrade.

“They shouldn't,” replied Anthea. “That model has been used in situations a lot more delicate than this one and not been detected.”

 _“As if we'd be that unimaginative,”_ said Sherlock disdainfully.

There was some muffled noises, including a thump that must have been right over the microphone and made John's ears throb. Apparently they didn't notice the wire though, because the next thing John heard was clearly aimed at Mycroft.

 _“I'll need the umbrella.”_

 _“Oh, come on,”_ protested Mycroft. _“It's just an umbrella.”_

 _“Give it over or you'll be sent back out, and I can't say what Moriarty will do then. He tends to get explosive when he's angry,”_ said the voice.

Mycroft sighed long-sufferingly. _“Absolutely ridiculous.”_

There was a click, and a faint metallic sound. _“Just an umbrella?”_ repeated the voice.

 _“A sword-umbrella?”_ exclaimed Sherlock. _“Don't you think that's a little pretentious?”_

 _“Merely a precaution,”_ said Mycroft.

“Mycroft's umbrella has been taken,” said John. He wasn't sure if the fact it was a sword-umbrella counted as a secret or not, but there didn't seem any reason to mention it. From the look on Anthea's face, she at least already knew.

 _“A handful of men and a quick search at the door,”_ said Mycroft in musing voice. _“Security here isn't exactly up to the levels of MI5, is it? Even the security cameras are painfully obvious.”_

“There's only a handful of men and some cameras, and Mycroft is unimpressed with the security,” said John.

“He might not have noticed it all,” said Lestrade. Joseph and Anthea both gave him a look as if he'd suggested that the sky was green.

 _“Quiet,”_ commanded the voice. _“This way.”_

There were more footfalls and the creak of a door opening.

 _“Evening, boys!”_ said Moriarty's voice and John made a face at just the sound of it. _“So good to see you again! I'm sorry about the circumstances, but it takes such a lot to get family together these days, doesn't it?”_

“They've got through to Moriarty,” John said, and couldn't help adding. “He still sounds like a lunatic.”

“Has he mentioned the bombs?” asked Lestrade. John just shook his head at him in order to avoid missing any of the conversation.

 _“Excuse me if I fail to subscribe to your definition of family,”_ said Mycroft.

 _“Oh, but I have a special surprise guest for you!”_ said Moriarty. _“You'll hurt his feelings if you talk like that. Bring him in, Seb.”_

A door creaked open and there was a brief pause.

 _“Professor Moran,”_ said Mycroft heavily. John felt himself tense, even though there was nothing he could do. _“You appear to have aged even more than I would have expected.”_

 _“That'll be the torture,”_ said Moriarty. _“I get bored, you know.”_

 _“Mycroft,”_ said a frail voice that seemed to radiate disapproval. _“I see you have allowed yourself to be pulled into this game – how disappointing. I suppose I should not have expected more from you, though.”_

“There's another hostage,” said John. He couldn't explain who Professor Moran was, but this was the kind of thing that the teams going in would need to know. “I think he's been with Moriarty for a while, and he sounds old.”

 _“Disapproval from a parent-figure!”_ said Moriarty excitedly. _“This really is a family reunion! How lovely.”_

Lestrade and Anthea were talking, but John didn't want to miss anything that was going on, so he cupped his hands around his ears to block them out.

 _“Yes, yes, it's a barrel of laughs,”_ said Sherlock with impatience. _“What on earth do you want, Moriarty? My plans for tonight did not include hanging out with a madman in a warehouse.”_

Lestrade pushed a piece of paper under John's face that said _How many people in total?_

“Moriarty,” he replied. “Sherlock, Mycroft and the hostage. At least one other guy who Moriarty called Seb. I don't know if there's other thugs in the room.”

 _“Oh, but this is much more fun than anything you had planned,”_ said Moriarty with an unholy amount of glee. _“Trust me, Sherlock. You know I love to entertain you.”_

 _“We have very different definitions of 'entertain',”_ said Sherlock, but John found himself thinking that, actually, they really didn't. The thought felt disloyal so he pushed it away.

 _“Sherlock?”_ said Professor Moran's voice.

 _“Oh, did I neglect to introduce you?”_ said Moriarty. _“This is Sherlock, Moran. Your precious Sherlock, all grown up and emotionally dependent on a dull little doctor.”_

 _“Sherlock,”_ repeated Moran, as if it was a prayer. John winced on Sherlock's behalf. _“Oh, my boy. Look at you. I can't tell you how upset I was with the way you left us.”_

 _“Really?”_ said Sherlock. _“By all accounts it seems to have been the best thing that could have happened to me. After all, left with you, I could have ended up like him.”_

Another piece of paper was put under John's eyes. _What the hell is going on?!_

“Banter,” said John, glancing up. Lestrade and Anthea managed a synchronised eye-roll.

 _“You could never have been like him,”_ said Moran with a lot of venom.

 _“Now, now,”_ said Moriarty. _“You know it's not nice to play favourites. And any way, you're jumping ahead of the game.”_

 _“And what, precisely, is the game?”_ asked Mycroft.

 _“Oh, it doesn't include you,”_ said Moriarty dismissively. _“I think we all already know what a failure you are. No, this is between me and Sherlock.”_

 _“And once it's concluded,”_ said Mycroft, _“may we trust that you will disarm your bombs? Or will we be forced to jump through hoops endlessly?”_

 _“I imagine I'll get bored of that very quickly,”_ added Sherlock.

 _“Oh, don't worry,”_ said Moriarty. _“The bombs are all part of the game. You can bring it in now, Seb.”_

“He's going to make Sherlock play some game with him,” said John. “It's somehow tied up to the bombs – he's not explained properly yet.”

Lestrade let out a frustrated noise. “He doesn't half talk, does he?”

John gave him a look. “You have no idea,” he said darkly. The time he'd spent kidnapped by Moriarty had largely been filled with him rambling on about nothing and everything.

“The longer he talks, the more time we have to prepare,” pointed out Joseph.

There was a squeaking noise like trolley wheels and then a couple of thumps from the earpiece.

 _“DaDA!”_ said Moriarty, as if he was revealing some exciting surprise.

 _“When you said a game, I didn't suppose you meant an actual game,”_ said Mycroft, sounding less than impressed.

 _“What a cliché,”_ agreed Sherlock. _“A master-villain with a chess-set. Did we stumble into a Bond film by accident?”_

 _“You've seen a Bond film?”_ Mycroft asked him with surprise.

 _“John likes them,”_ said Sherlock, and John could almost hear his scowl.

 _“No one's interested in your pet,”_ spat Moriarty. _“Sit down.”_

Sherlock let out a sigh, and there was the sound of movement. _“So, we play chess and whoever wins is the true family genius, case closed, you go away and stop bothering us?”_

 _“Not quite,”_ said Moriarty, _“although I suppose that's the gist of it. There's just a couple of minor adjustments. Sit down, Mycroft – Seb's thought to provide you with a chair.”_

 _“I'm not sure I approve of the accessories,”_ said Mycroft. _“I'd prefer to stand.”_

 _“I'm afraid I insist,”_ said Moriarty sharply.

Mycroft let out a long sigh. _“Leather straps are so last decade,”_ he said.

“Mycroft is being strapped to a chair,” said John. Anthea clenched her fists. “Sherlock and Moriarty are going to play chess.”

“Chess?!” repeated Lestrade. “Oh for- This is ridiculous!”

 _“Let me explain the rules,”_ said Moriarty, and John tuned Lestrade out. _“It's very simple – nothing that should worry you, if you really are the prodigy that Moran thinks you are. The emotionally-detached prodigy. You'll be white, of course. Only fitting.”_

 _“I suppose now is not the time to mention that I haven't played chess since I was fourteen,”_ said Sherlock.

 _“I'm sure you'll pick it up again quickly enough,”_ said Moriarty.

 _“And you were very good, back then,”_ put in Mycroft.

 _“You used to cheat,”_ said Sherlock in the dark tones of one who has held a grudge for most of their lives.

 _“I didn't, actually,”_ said Mycroft.

 _“No one's interested,”_ said Moriarty harshly, and John wondered if Sherlock and Mycroft's continual digressions were beginning to get to him. And then he wondered if that was the point of them – both Sherlock and Mycroft were usually better at sticking to the point, after all.

 _“The rules are these,”_ Moriarty continued. _“Every time one of us takes a piece, the other pays a forfeit. If I take one of your pawns, for example, Seb here will break one of Mycroft's fingers. If I take one of your more major pieces, I shall detonate one of my bombs. There are eight – one for each of them, scattered throughout London, all in very familiar places.”_

“There are eight bombs,” said John. “All in London – he says in familiar places. He's going to detonate one every time he manages to take one of Sherlock's major pieces. And break one of Mycroft's fingers for every pawn.”

“Christ!” said Lestrade. Anthea went pale, but pulled out her Blackberry and started typing immediately.

 _“I see,”_ said Sherlock. _“And if I take one of your pieces?”_

 _“If it's a major piece, I'll deactivate one of my bombs,”_ said Moriarty.

 _“And the pawns?”_ asked Sherlock. _“Are you going to break Seb's fingers?”_

Moriarty laughed. _“As if I care about whether he gets hurt. I'd probably only enjoy that – no offence, Seb.”_

 _“None taken, sir.”_

 _“No, I'm afraid you'll just have to take my word for it that I'd be very, very unhappy about it.”_

 _“And the winner?”_ asked Sherlock.

 _“The winner takes all, of course,”_ said Moriarty. _“I get to set my bombs off – those that remain after the game, and I get to do what I like with Mycroft. You can go free – I don't want any self-preservation instincts coming in to play after all and, well. I might want to play with you again, next time I'm bored. If you win, I'll hand over my organisation and allow you to take me into custody.”_

John quickly summarised that for the others in the room.

 _“High stakes,”_ noted Sherlock.

 _“Of course!”_ said Moriarty. _“Why play otherwise? Although, be fair Sherlock – you're only playing with high stakes if you actually care about London or Mycroft. And you're meant to be genetically incapable of caring about such things.”_

 _“Genetics do not account for everything,”_ said Sherlock. _“Allow me to clarify a few details before we begin – are your bombs attached to specific pieces?”_

 _“Oh, clever, clever,”_ said Moriarty. _“Working out a strategy? It won't help you. They're all related to specific pieces, but that doesn't mean I won't start blowing them up soon if you don't get on with it.”_

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh that John was sure was modelled on one of his own. _“Tell me, Professor,”_ he said. _“Did you intend for him to be this impatient?”_

There was the clack of a piece moving. Moriarty made an interested noise, but didn't say anything.

 _“We did not intend for a lot of what he is,”_ said Professor Moran.

 _“That goes for all of us,”_ pointed out Mycroft.

There was the clack of another piece moving. Sherlock made a scoffing noise. _“Please, I thought you were meant to be at least a bit clever.”_

Moriarty laughed. _“Worried you'll have to sacrifice something?”_

 _“Sherlock understands that sacrifices have to be made sometimes,”_ said Mycroft. _“There's a difference between that and just not caring, you know.”_

Another piece was moved. John could feel tension welding his spine together and he wished that they'd been able to work out some way of getting a camera onto Sherlock. He might not know much about chess, but at least if he was able to look at the board, he might have some idea of what was going on.

Lestrade tapped his shoulder, and John looked up from where he was staring at the desk, willing it to show him what was happening in the warehouse.

“Do you think we should go in?” he asked quietly. John glanced at Anthea and Joseph, both of whom looked grim but resigned.

He hesitated. “Surely we'd run the risk of him setting all the bombs off?”

“I am confident that we can take the warehouse without Moriarty being made aware,” said Joseph. “Reconnaissance has shown that the security is as lax as Mr. Holmes suggested earlier. Once we have the building, we'll have far greater control over the events in the room.”

There was a sharp clack from the earpiece, as if one of the chess pieces had hit another.

 _“Very good, Sherlock,”_ said Moriarty patronisingly. _“But pawns are made to be sacrificed, and it doesn't win you anything.”_ John could hear tension underneath his tone, though, and he wondered if perhaps Sherlock was proving to be better at this than Moriarty had gambled on.

Sooner or later Sherlock would end up losing a piece, though. Chess wasn't a game that could be won with defensive playing. He looked at Joseph and nodded. “If it can be done without alerting Moriarty, then take the building,” he said.

Joseph nodded as if he'd been given orders by a superior officer and left the room. John wondered when he'd been put in charge of this thing – what the hell did he know about hostage situations?

There was another clack from inside the room, and then Moriarty made a gleeful sound. _“Oh, Sherlsie, how could you? Your own big brother... You know what to do, Seb.”_

 _“Yes, sir,”_ said Seb, sounding almost as pleased as Moriarty was.

 _“If you call me that again,”_ said Sherlock in a dangerous voice, _“then I'll just stand up and walk out of here, bombs be damned.”_

 _“Oh, temper, temper,”_ said Moriarty. _“It's just a nickname – families are allowed those kinds of liberties, you know.”_

There was an unpleasant snapping sound that John wished he didn't recognise, and Mycroft made a pained grunt, although that was the extent of his reaction.

“They've broken one of Mycroft's fingers,” he reported, feeling sick.

Anthea's hands clenched her Blackberry tighter, until her knuckles went white.

 _“Mycroft doesn't really need his fingers,”_ said Sherlock, as if the whole thing was uninteresting. _“He has minions to do everything for him.”_ There was a faint tremor in his voice, though, something John wasn't sure anyone who knew Sherlock less well, or who wasn't listening as closely as John was, would hear.

The next few moves were made in silence. John clenched his fists against the tension. Lestrade was pacing the room now, looking even more frustrated than John felt.

 _“Ah,”_ said Sherlock after a few minutes. _“I believe that was a mistake, Moriarty.”_

There was the clack of another piece being knocked over.

 _“A mistake, or strategy?”_ said Moriarty. _“I can afford to lose a couple of bombs – there are plenty of others. Seb, deactivate the bomb in Scotland Yard, would you?”_

“There's a bomb at Scotland Yard,” said John.

“Shit!” said Lestrade, his face going white. Anthea reapplied herself to her Blackberry.

“Moriarty's deactivating it,” said John. “Or, well. He says he is.”

“The building will be packed at this time of day,” said Lestrade.

“Now we know where it is, we'll find it,” said Anthea with far more confidence than John felt.

 _“Ah,”_ breathed Mycroft, as if having a quiet revelation.

 _“What?”_ snapped Moriarty.

There was a tap at the door of the room John was in. John ignored it and Anthea went over to answer it.

 _“Oh, nothing,”_ said Mycroft. _“Please do continue.”_

 _“He really can be infuriating, can't he?”_ said Sherlock. _“Your turn.”_

“Joseph's team have taken the building,” Anthea reported. “It's secure.”

There was nothing but the quiet sounds of chess down the earpiece. “Moriarty hasn't noticed,” said John. He stood up. “This earpiece will work anywhere, won't it?”

“Yes,” said Anthea. “It's a wifi link, but-”

“No buts,” said John firmly. “I'm going to the warehouse.” He glanced at Lestrade. “Coming?”

“Of course,” said Lestrade. From the look on his face, he'd had enough sitting around just listening too.

 _“You'll never win the game playing like that,”_ said Moriarty. _“And besides, it's boring. Come on, live a little. It's not as if London wouldn't survive a bomb going off – it has before.”_

John cupped one hand over his ear as he walked, relying on Lestrade to lead him in the right direction. Anthea followed them to where a car was waiting outside the door of the building they were in.

 _“Sherlock and I used to play this game a lot as children,”_ said Mycroft.

 _“No one's interested,”_ snapped Moriarty.

Mycroft ignored him. _“When he was about eight, he realised that I hadn't been playing to my full potential in order to give him a chance, and he threw one of his more memorable tantrums.”_

 _“You were cheating,”_ Sherlock insisted.

 _“I was considerably older than you,”_ said Mycroft. _“It seemed a little unfair.”_

 _“How was I meant to learn if you didn't even try?”_ shot back Sherlock.

 _“So you said at the time,”_ agreed Mycroft. _“After that, I played with all of my ability, which meant that I won almost every game.”_

 _“Only because I was still a child,”_ said Sherlock quickly.

The warehouse was only a few roads from the building they'd been in before and there was a group of serious-looking men standing outside, hands under their jackets as if that would actually fool people into not realising that they were holding guns.

 _“When he was thirteen or fourteen, though,”_ continued Mycroft, _“he started to win. He won several games in a row, despite my best attempts to beat him, and then threw another, even more destructive tantrum because he thought I was letting him win again.”_

John, Anthea and Lestrade were hustled inside the warehouse, into an antechamber containing more of Joseph's men and Joseph himself.

 _“You were letting me win,”_ said Sherlock.

 _“No,”_ corrected Mycroft. _“You just finally caught up with me, and then surpassed me. You knew how to sacrifice better. I never have managed to catch the knack of not forming attachments, and so you managed to beat me.”_

 _“So you're agreeing with Moran's philosophy then? That forming attachments is a weakness?”_ said Moriarty, then he tutted. _“What would Queen and country think?”_

There was a pause over the earpiece. Clearly Mycroft was not interested in discussing Queen and country with Moriarty.

“The room they're in is this way,” said Joseph.

“You can't go in,” said John quickly.

“No,” said Joseph. “And we've taken care not to overhear anything – we know our orders.”

 _“Are you suggesting that I should let a bomb go off?”_ said Sherlock, and John stopped paying attention to what Joseph was saying.

 _“I'm merely saying that you should play the game to the best of your ability,”_ said Mycroft. _“I'm sure neither of us want Moriarty to throw a tantrum.”_

 _“I do throw beautiful tantrums,”_ said Moriarty. _“Isn't that right, Seb?”_

 _“Indeed, sir, ”_ said Seb. _“I remember the one in Bangkok with particular affection.”_

“They've located the bomb at Scotland Yard,” said Anthea, reading from her Blackberry. “They're working to disable it now.”

 _“Oh, fine,”_ grumbled Sherlock. _“Have it your way, Mycroft.”_

 _“Another finger!”_ said Moriarty with glee. _“Lucky Seb!”_

There was a snap and another grunt of pain from Mycroft.

“They broke another of Mycroft's fingers,” said John.

Lestrade's mouth twisted unhappily for a moment, then he put a hand on John's shoulder. “Come on,” he said.

Joseph led them through the maze of defensive structures that had been built inside the warehouse, past the occasional fallen body of one of Moriarty's men, to a large, unassuming door. “Be very quiet,” he said. “They're just the other side.”

Another piece moved on the board. _“And another bomb too,”_ said Sherlock. _“You really are far too eager to cause Mycroft pain – it's distracting you.”_

John couldn't hear anything through the door at all, but he gestured the others to step slightly further away anyway. “We can't go in yet,” he said as quietly as he could.

 _“I have plenty of other bombs,”_ said Moriarty. _“Seb, deactivate the one in Croydon.”_

 _“Croydon,”_ repeated Mycroft. _“Ah, of course. The site of the laboratory. Edridge Road, wasn't it?”_

“One of the other bombs is in Croydon,” said John. “Edridge Road.”

 _“It's a pizza restaurant now,”_ said Moriarty. _“Well done, Sherlock. You've allowed the good people of Croydon to continue being able to eat themselves into obesity-related health problems.”_

“A pizza restaurant,” added John. “Not sure what kind.”

“That should be enough,” said Anthea. “The bomb squad is heading there now.”

 _“Obvious,”_ said Mycroft. _“Really, you could have tried a bit harder.”_

 _“What?”_ snapped Moriarty. _“Shut up, you're not part of this.”_

 _“Ah, if that wasn't true, you wouldn't have extended the invitation to include me,”_ said Mycroft. _“I propose a new game. I'll tell you where all your bombs are, and if I get them all correct, you'll give up on this ridiculous farce and let us go.”_

“Mycroft says he knows where the other bombs are,” said John.

“Then he does,” said Anthea with complete confidence.

 _“Trying to save the rest of your fingers?”_ asked Moriarty. _“And what do I get if you get it wrong? Oh, I know!”_ The excited quality of his voice made John's shoulders clench even tighter. He could feel the ache that all this tension was causing in his bad shoulder all the way through his back. _“We'll let Seb have some proper fun. For every location you get wrong, he can break one of the more major bones in your body.”_

 _“Accepted,”_ said Mycroft.

 _“Don't be an idiot, Mycroft,”_ said Sherlock. _“How am I meant to get you out of here if you have a broken leg?”_

 _“Perhaps you should just try having some faith in me,”_ said Mycroft. Sherlock's only response was a disgusted snort. _“Well, we already have one location for the rooks: the site of the old laboratory in Croydon. Rooks are castles – both homes and prisons. Obvious, then, that the other bomb would be wherever the laboratory moved to after the fire. Somewhere still in Greater London, but I must confess that I have no real idea precisely where.”_

 _“Dagenham,”_ said the old voice of Professor Moran. _“Thames Road. When I last saw it, nearly a decade ago, it was a smoking ruin, but I should imagine they've built something new there.”_

 _“Don't help him,”_ said Moriarty viciously and there was the ringing sound of a slap, followed by a choked cry.

“There's a bomb in Dagenham,” said John. “Thames Road, in a building that was rebuilt roughly ten years ago after a large fire.”

 _“The next two are easier,”_ continued Mycroft as easily as if nothing had happened. _“This whole game has been geared towards Sherlock, so deducing who you might perceive as his knights is easy. John Watson, of course, so I should imagine the bomb is at Baker Street. Not 221 – far too many people watching it, but probably one of the neighbouring houses. Sherlock's next closest confederate is Detective Inspector Lestrade, so I should imagine his flat also has a bomb.”_

“There's a bomb at Baker Street, in one of the houses next to 221,” repeated John. “And-” He looked up and met Lestrade's eyes. “One at your flat.”

Lestrade looked stricken for a moment, but just nodded tightly in response.

 _“And then the bishops. The spiritual aspect. Sherlock has two burning passions – science and crime, and we already know that one of the bombs is at New Scotland Yard – crime. As for science – do you still use St. Bartholomew's for your experiments, Sherlock?”_

 _“When I need to,”_ said Sherlock. _“If I just had the proper equipment installed at Baker Street-”_

“St. Barts,” said John. “Probably in or around the lab that Sherlock uses most – it's on the third floor.”

 _“I am not paying to turn your home into a laboratory,”_ said Mycroft firmly. _“Aside from everything else, Doctor Watson would never forgive me. Or you.”_

 _“Get on with it,”_ said Moriarty. _“You still have two more to go.”_

 _“Yes,_ said Mycroft. _“The queen. If our mother was still alive- but, no. You wouldn't really understand that kind of connection, would you? Somewhere showy, then – it's an important piece. And what it represents – you've referenced Queen and country already today in disparaging terms and it's one of our major differences. Both Sherlock and I work for the country, in defiance of Professor Moran's original plan, and you work against it, as he always wanted.”_

 _“Not because of him,”_ said Moriarty in a snarl.

 _“Of course not,_ said Mycroft in the voice that said the complete opposite. _“At any rate, you would want at least one bomb somewhere dramatic, and Croydon doesn't exactly fit that bill. Buckingham Palace, I'd say. I played a tiny part in the security there, and I fancy you found it rather difficult to plant a bomb inside the building itself, so it's the statue of Queen Victoria outside – always plenty of tourists around there, aren't there?”_

“The statue of Queen Victoria outside Buckingham Palace,” said John.

 _“And the last one,”_ continued Mycroft. _“Well, the king is the endgame. No doubt you have a bomb somewhere within this warehouse with a suitable delay on it so that you might be able to get away.”_

John felt himself go white. “And the last bomb is in this warehouse.”

Joseph glanced at the nearest of his men. “Find it,” he instructed, and the man disappeared.

 _“Very good,_ said Moriarty in a voice that made it sound as if he was gritting his teeth. _“You've deprived Seb of getting to break any of your bones.”_

“Moriarty's confirmed those locations,” said John.

“So, now they just have to keep him distracted while we find and disable all the bloody things,” said Lestrade, wiping a hand over his face. “I'm going to need a very stiff drink after this one, I can tell.”

 _“It's disconcerting when you've spent your life being the only person who thinks like you, and then you find someone else who can, isn't it? You can see why I became so attached to Sherlock,”_ said Mycroft.

 _“It doesn't matter,”_ said Moriarty. _“That information doesn't help you at all. Sherlock still has to win this game to prevent me setting them off. Their locations would only matter if-”_ There was a short, telling pause. _“Oh-ho-ho,”_ he said in realisation. _“Oh, of course. Which of you has the wire?”_

Fear paralysed John for a second, then he started moving without even thinking. “Give me a gun,” he demanded of Joseph.

 _“What makes you think we have a wire?”_ asked Sherlock. _“Don't you think that would be a bit pedestrian?”_

“What are you doing?” said Lestrade as Joseph handed over a handgun without question.

 _“Not to mention the risks it would involve,”_ added Mycroft.

“Distracting him,” said John. “Find the damn bombs.”

 _“Don't treat me like one of the idiots you choose to associate with,”_ snapped Moriarty. _“Hand it over, or things will start blowing up.”_

John took a deep breath, shifted the gun into a comfortable grip, and opened the door, walking in as casually as he could.

The room wasn't as large as he'd been picturing, although the ceiling was high. It looked to be the last remnants of the original warehouse, before the maze-like defences had been built. Sherlock and Moriarty were sitting in the middle of the room at a small table holding a chess set, although Moriarty leapt to his feet at John's arrival. Mycroft's chair, complete with leather straps on his wrists and ankles, was angled so that he could see the game, and there was an old man in a wheel chair next to him. Professor Moran, presumably. He looked both broken and stubborn, as if life had sucked every scrap of life-force from him years ago, and now he was only holding on by sheer willpower. Hovering behind him was a thug, who drew a gun on John.

“Evening,” said John, carefully shutting the door behind himself. “Hope you don't mind me gate-crashing.”

“I do mind,” hissed Moriarty. There was a split-second delay between hearing it out loud and hearing it through the earpiece, and John winced and pulled the device out of his ear. “You weren't invited. Seb, shoot him.”

“I wouldn't do that,” said John, pointing his gun firmly at Moriarty. “However fast you shoot, I'll still take out your boss first.”

“John,” said Sherlock in a furious voice. “I told you to stay away!”

“Yes,” agreed John. “See how annoying it is when someone ignores your requests? You should bear that in mind next time I ask you not to leave body parts in the fridge.”

“I suppose you have passed on the locations of my bombs to the authorities,” said Moriarty. “How intensely irritating. I'm tempted to take my chances and have Seb shoot you anyway. I hate it when people mess with my plans.”

“I wouldn't,” said Sherlock. “He's an excellent shot.” He stood up, moving in the direction of Mycroft.

“Don't move,” said Moriarty sharply. Seb's gun wavered for a moment between John and Sherlock.

“Oh, please,” said Sherlock, not stopping. “You're not going to shoot me.” He crouched down by Mycroft and started undoing his straps.

“Let me guess,” said Moriarty, taking a couple of steps backwards, away from the chess set. “Police outside, teams already searching for the bombs, no hope of escape, blah blah blah.”

“Something like that,” said John.

“Good thing I have another way out then,” said Moriarty, taking another step backwards.

“Stop moving,” said John. Seb's gun was aimed firmly on him again, making him itch with nervousness. “I think you should put that down,” he told him.

Seb snorted. “Or what?” he asked.

He had a point. If John moved his gun off Moriarty in order to aim at Seb instead, Moriarty was likely to make a run for it. If he shot Moriarty, Seb would shoot him. The whole situation felt like it was getting dangerously out of control, as if any second it could all go horribly wrong. It was a depressingly familiar feeling.

Sherlock stood up from undoing the last of Mycroft's straps. “Well, this has been fun,” he said, “but it's over, Moriarty. Give up.”

“Not a chance,” said Moriarty. “There's always the next round, Sherlock.” He gave him a roguish wink and John almost shot him just for that, on principle.

“The next round?” said Sherlock. “The one you play from inside prison, you mean?”

Moriarty laughed, and it sounded a bit too triumphant for John's liking. “Oh, bless,” he said. “You actually think you have me caught.”

“The place is surrounded,” Mycroft pointed out. He'd stood up and away from the chair, and was holding one hand carefully against his chest.

“Ah, but I happen to know two things you don't know,” said Moriarty, clapping his hands together. “Well, I know far more than that, but only two are relevant right now. The first is the secret way out of this room that will get me far away while the police are still scratching their arses.”

“And which you can't use without John shooting you,” pointed out Sherlock.

“Ah! That's where the second thing comes in,” said Moriarty, slipping a hand into his pocket and pulling out a small device. “This is the master detonator for all those bombs. Hundreds of dead people, millions of pounds of property damage, general public panic, all at the touch of a button. It's amazing what technology can do, isn't it?”

Oh shit. John should have seen this coming – of course he'd have a detonator on him. What the hell were they going to do now?

“You've proved you're more than sentimental enough to put those lives above catching me – and even if you hadn't, you should know that the first, and only, thing I'll tell the police if I'm arrested is the curious tale of my genesis, and that of my two big brothers.”

“Shooting you would solve that,” said Sherlock.

“You're not going to risk the bombs going off,” said Moriarty blithely. “Come on, Seb, time to leave.”

Seb kept his gun pointed at John as he crossed to where Moriarty was standing, and John was forced to stay impotently still, gritting his teeth. As Seb passed by Professor Moran's wheelchair, Moran let out an aggravated, impatient exhale. Moving faster and with more strength than his appearance would have suggested, his fist shot out, catching Seb squarely in the balls.

Seb let out a pain-filled cry and automatically bent over as Moran grabbed the gun from his hand, turned, and shot Moriarty straight through the head, exploding his brains all over the wall behind him. John found himself flinching in anticipation of the bomb in the building going off, but it seemed that Moran's movements had been too quick and unexpected for Moriarty to have set off the detonator.

“You're all such wimps,” Moran said scathingly, just as Seb recovered enough to realise what had happened.

“No!” he shouted, and leapt at Moran. John shot without thinking, catching him right through the chest so that he collapsed to the floor without ever reaching his target.

A moment later, the door behind John burst open and Joseph and his men charged in, guns drawn.

“Joseph,” said Mycroft in greeting. “Just in time to clean this mess up.”

Joseph glanced around at the two bodies and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“John,” said Sherlock, ignoring his brother and his men in favour of striding towards John. “Are you alright?”

John realised that he was still standing with the gun up, and let himself relax, clearing his throat. “Yes, fine,” he said. “How about you?”

Sherlock made a face. “Chess is so tedious,” he complained.

Anthea and Lestrade had come into the room once Joseph's men had cleared out of the doorway, and Anthea went straight over to Mycroft. She was carrying his umbrella, which they must have found outside somewhere.

“Sir,” she said, handing it over. “We've located four of the bombs, including the one in this building, and the one outside Buckingham Palace. We're just working to disarm them, and locate the others now.”

“Excellent,” said Mycroft, taking the umbrella with his good hand and holding on to it with a grip that made John think that perhaps it had more significance than merely habit, as he'd claimed the other day. He was still holding his other hand cradled close to his chest, and John thought of the sharp cracking sounds that he'd heard over the earpiece.

“Do you want me to look at your fingers?” he offered.

Mycroft gave him a mildly surprised look. “No need, I'm sure there is a paramedic standing by outside somewhere,” he said. “Thank you for the offer, though, Doctor.”

“Well, they won't be needed for either of these two,” said Joseph, looking up from his examination of Seb. He gave John a nod. “That was a good shot.”

“It was over a very short distance,” John pointed out.

“Learn to take a compliment, John,” said Sherlock. “Now, give the gun back – you don't need any more toys – and we can go home.”

“What about Professor Moran?” asked John, handing the gun back to Joseph.

Moran had collapsed back against his seat and was watching the proceedings with an irritated curl to his lip that didn't quite hide the obvious exhaustion in his posture. John thought for a moment about spending ten years as Moriarty's prisoner, and had to suppress a shudder. A couple of hours had been enough for him.

Mycroft eyed the professor with faint distaste for a moment. “He'll be taken care of,” he said. “There's a private facility that will be well-suited to his care. Comfortable, but very secure.” He glanced at Anthea. “Arrange it.”

“Of course, sir,” she said.

Mycroft came with them as they headed outside, and John took the chance to ask him, in a quiet voice, “What if he says something? About the lab?”

“He won't,” said Mycroft. “He doesn't want that to get out any more than we do. Prison is no place for an old man, after all.”

There was a car waiting outside to take them back to Baker Street,. Sherlock scowled at it, and for a moment John thought he was going to insist that they went off to try and find a taxi instead.

“Allow me to make sure you get safely home at least, Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock's scowl deepened for a moment, then faded away. He nodded awkwardly. “Fine,” he said, pulling the door open. He hesitated before getting in and said, without looking at Mycroft, “You know, if you ever wanted to stop by for tea or something, I suppose I could put up with it.”

An unguarded look of surprise passed briefly over Mycroft's face, and then he allowed himself a small smile. “That would be nice,” he said. “Perhaps we might go as far as dinner?”

“Let's not get carried away,” said Sherlock. “And wait a couple of days – I think I've had quite enough of family for the moment.”

“Moriarty doesn't count as family,” Mycroft reminded him. “After all, I would never force you to play chess.”

That won a quick smile out of Sherlock, then he disappeared into the car.

“Good bye, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft.

“I think you could probably get away with calling me John,” said John.

“John, then,” said Mycroft. “I suppose you are practically family now, given that you know our secrets, and have defended them.”

John shrugged awkwardly. “It was nothing. I'll see you later, Mycroft.”

He ducked inside the car after Sherlock. Definitely time to head home and have a cup of tea.


End file.
